“Don’t you mariners ever use the proper form of address, Hawkwood?”
“I am Captain Hawkwood to you, Lord Murad. What about the rutter?”
“I cannot give it to you.” Murad held up a hand as Hawkwood was about to speak again. “But I can give you a set of sailing instructions copied out of it word for word.” He snatched up a sheaf of papers from the table behind him. “Will that suffice?”
Hawkwood hesitated. The rutter of a true seaman, an open-ocean navigator, was a rare and wonderful thing. Shipmasters guarded their rutters with their lives, and the knowledge that this ignorant landsman had in his possession such a document—and containing the details of such a voyage—was maddening. Perhaps he even had a log as well. So much information would be there, information any captain in Hebrion would give an arm for, and this ignorant swine kept it to himself where it was useless. What was he afraid that Hawkwood might see? What was out there in the west that had to be kept so secret?
He snatched the papers greedily out of Murad’s hand but forced himself not to look at them. There would be a better time. He would lay his hands on the rutter yet. He had to, if he was to be responsible for his ships.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, stuffing the papers in his bosom as though they were of little account.
Murad nodded. “There! You see, Captain, we can work together if we’ve a mind to. Now will you sit with me and have some wine?”
They would be weighing anchor soon, but Hawkwood took a chair, feeling that the scarred nobleman had somehow outfoxed him. Murad rang a little handbell that sat on the table.
The cabin door opened and a girl’s voice said, “Yes?”
Hawkwood turned in his chair, and found himself staring at a young woman with olive-coloured skin, green eyes and a mane of tawny, shining hair that was cropped short just below her ears. She wore the breeches of a boy, and could almost have passed for one were it not for the subtle delicacy of her features and the undeniable curves of her slim figure. He saw her hand on the door handle: brown fingers with close-bitten nails. A peasant girl, then. And he remembered—she was the one the sailor had tussled with up on deck.
“Wine, Griella, if you please,” Murad drawled, his eyes drinking in the girl as he spoke. She nodded and left without another word, eyes blazing.
“Marvellous, eh, Captain? Such spirit! She hates me already, but that is only to be expected. She will grow used to me, and her comrade also. It promises to be a pleasant tussle of wills.”
The girl came in with a tray, a decanter and two glasses. She set them on the table and exited again. She met Hawkwood’s stare as she went, and her eyes made him sit very still. He was silent as Murad poured the wine. Something in the eyes was not right; it reminded Hawkwood of the mad eyes of a rabid dog, windows into some unfathomable viciousness. He thought of saying something, but then shrugged to himself. Perhaps Murad liked them that way, but he had best be wary when bedding such a one.
“Drink, Captain.” The nobleman’s normally sinister face was creased with a smile: the sight of a girl seemed to have quickened his humour. Hawkwood knew that he had called her in for a reason, to make a point. He sipped at his glass, face flat.
A good wine, perhaps the best he had ever tasted. He savoured it a moment.
“Candelarian,” Murad told him. “Laid down by my grandfather. They call it the wine of ships, for it is said that it takes a sea voyage to age it properly, a little rolling in the cask. I have half a dozen barrels below, thank the Saints.”
Hawkwood knew that. It had meant carrying six fewer casks of water. But he said nothing. He had come to realize that he could do little about the whims of the nobleman whilst Hebrion was in sight. Once they were on the open ocean, though—then it would be different.
“So tell me, Captain,” Murad went on, “why the delay? We are all aboard, everything is ready, so why do we sit at anchor? Aren’t we wasting time?”
“We are waiting for the tide to turn,” Hawkwood said patiently. “Once it reverses its flow and begins pulling out of the bay, then we’ll up anchor and have the current to aid us when we’re trying to get past the headland. A beam wind—one that hits the ship on the side—is not the best for speed. With the Osprey I’d sooner have one from the quarter, that is coming up at an angle from aft of amidships.”
Murad laughed. “What a language you sailors have among yourselves!”
“Once we clear Abrusio Head we’ll be steering a more southerly course and we’ll have that quartering wind; but it’ll be pushing us towards a lee shore so I’ll be taking the ships further out to gain sea room.”
“Surely it would be quicker to remain inshore.”
“Yes, but if the wind picks up, and with the leeway the ships make, we could find ourselves being pushed on the shore itself, embayed or run aground. A good mariner likes to have deep water under him and a few leagues of sea room to his lee.”
Murad waved a hand, growing bored. “Whatever. You are the expert in this matter.”
“When we hit the latitude of North Cape,” Hawkwood went on relentlessly, “if we sail due west we’ll have that beam wind again. Only the rutter of the Cartigellan Faulcon’s master can tell me if we can expect to have the Hebrian trade with us out into the Western Ocean, or if we pick up a different set of winds at some point. It is important; it will dictate the length of the voyage.”
“It is there in the sheets I copied for you,” Murad said sharply. His scar rippled on his face like a pale leech.
“You may not know what should be copied and what should not. You may not have given me everything I need to navigate this enterprise with any safety.”
“Then you will have to come back to me, Captain. There will be no more discussion of the matter.”
Hawkwood was about to retort when he heard a cry beyond the cabin.
“Osprey ahoy! Ahoy the carrack there! We’ve a passenger for you. You left him behind, it seems.”
Hawkwood glanced at Murad, but the nobleman seemed as puzzled as himself. They rose as one and left the cabin, stepping along the passage to the waist of the ship. Billerand and a crowd of others were leaning over the side.
“What is it? Who is this?” Murad demanded, but Billerand ignored him.
“Seems we left someone behind, Captain. They’ve an extra passenger for us, brought out in the harbour scow.”
Hawkwood looked down the sloping ship’s side. The scow crew had hooked on to the carrack’s main chains and a figure was clambering up the side of the ship, his robe billowing in the sea breeze. He laboured over the ship’s rail and stood on deck, his tonsured head shining with effort.
“The peace of God on this ship and all in her,” he said, panting.
He was an Inceptine cleric.
“What foolishness is this?” Murad shouted. “By whose orders are you come aboard? You there, in the boat—take this man off again!” But the scow had already unhooked and her crew were pulling away from the carrack, one waving as they went.
“Damnation! Who are you, sir? On whose authority do you take ship with this company?” Murad was livid, furious, but the Inceptine was calm and collected. He was an oldish man, white-haired, but ruddy and spare of feature. His shoulders were rounded under the habit and he had the stocky build of a longshoreman. The Saint symbol glinted at his breast.
“Please, my son, no blasphemy on the eve of so great an undertaking as this.”
For a moment Hawkwood thought that Murad was going to draw his sword and run the priest through. Then he spun on his heel and left the deck, disappearing down the companionway.
“Are you the master of this vessel?” the Inceptine asked Hawkwood.
“I am Richard Hawkwood, yes.”
“Ah, the Gabrian. Then, sir, might I ask you to find me some quarters? I have little in the way of belongings with me. All I need is a space to lay my head.”
Men were gathering in the waist, soldiers and sailors both. The sailors looked uneasy, even hostile, but the soldiers seemed pleased.
“Give us a blessing, Father!” one of them cried. “Call God and the Saints to watch over us!”
His cry was taken up by a score of his comrades. The Inceptine beamed and held up an open hand. “Very well, my sons. Kneel and receive the blessing of the Holy Church upon your enterprise.”
There was a mass movement as the soldiers knelt on the deck. A pause, and then most of the sailors joined them. The ship creaked and rolled on the swell, and there was almost a silence. The Inceptine opened his mouth to speak.
In the quiet came the four, distinct, lovely notes of the ship’s bell marking the end of the second dog-watch, and the turn of the tide.
“All hands!” Hawkwood roared instantly. “All hands to weigh anchor!”
The sailors leapt up, and the waist became a massive confusion of figures. Billerand began shouting; some of the kneeling soldiers were knocked sprawling.
A series of orders were bandied back and forth as the seamen hurried to their duties. There were casks, crates, boxes and chests everywhere on the deck and they along with the bewildered soldiers impeded the working of the ship, but there was no help for it; the hold was filled to capacity already. Hawkwood and Billerand shouted and shoved the crew to their well-known stations, whilst the cleric was left with his hand hanging impotently in the air, his face filling with blood.
In a twinkling, the crew were in position. Some were standing by at the windlass and the hawse-holes ready to begin winding in the thick cables that connected the ship to the anchors. More were busy on the yards, preparing to flash out the courses and topsails as soon as the anchor was weighed. The sailmaker and his mates were bringing up sail bonnets from below-decks so they would be handy when the time came for lashing them to the courses for a greater area of sail.
“Brace them round!” Hawkwood shouted. “Brace them right round, lads. We’ve a beam wind to work with. I don’t want to spill any of it!”
He felt the ship tilt under his feet, like a horse gathering its legs under it for a spring. The ebb was flowing out of the bay.